CHAPTER 78: THE OPHIDIAN EYE

It was not meant for mortal eyes

No light existed here except that which the spire allowed, and even that came in slow, pulsing waves.

The light was dim, then bright, then dim again like a heartbeat. In fact, it seemed a little too much like a heartbeat.

The air was heavy, thick with the metallic tang of magi, and every sound, even the smallest shift of a cloak, seemed swallowed by the black stone walls.

The space itself felt alive. Not alive in a warm, welcoming way, but alive like a predator waiting, coiled and patient.

An audible heartbeat thrummed in the dark, rhythmic and slow, pulsing through the spire’s core and sending vibrations beneath the feet of the five figures gathered in a crescent around it.

There were no visible doors, cracks, or hinges.

There seemed to be no entryway whatsoever.

The walls were perfect slabs of shadowed basalt, carved so finely that the pattern could only be seen when the spire’s light flared: interwoven coils and eyes, serpents twisting into infinity, their scales catching the pulses of light like liquid on obsidian.

A faint scent of burnt herbs hung faintly, a residue from the rituals birthed this sanctum long ago.

The scent mingled with the heavier metallic air, creating a strange juxtaposition of earth and fire. No one spoke immediately.

The spire pulsed again and again, slow but deliberate, and the light cast long, flickering shadows that danced along the serpentine carvings on the walls.

Five figures stood in perfect stillness, each wrapped head to toe in a deep charcoal cloak whose hood shrouded their faces in a supernatural darkness.

Not even the keenest mana-sense could pierce the enchantments woven into that fabric.

The robes erased their presence, softened their footsteps, and muffled their breathing, rendering them invisible to anyone else in the world.

But their power was impossible to hide.

Each radiated the oppressive force of an S-rank mage or even beyond.

Here were the leaders of hidden sects, each commanding loyal acolytes scattered across the Kingdom and beyond.

None were sanctioned by the Kingdom’s guilds. None sought recognition from the Mage Council. They thrived in the shadows, in the cracks of the world’s order, and now they gathered under a single, silent banner.

The Ophidian Eye.

The spire’s pulse quickened, sending tendrils of light coursing through the serpent carvings until the glow reached the tip, where it concentrated into a sharp, pure flare.

A faint, humming resonance filled the chamber, a vibration that thrummed through the floor and stirred the air.

Then the first voice broke the silence.

It was male, but the sound was blurred, altered by layered enchantments, making it impossible to be certain and the words were coated in venom.

"They say the Death Magus has reduced the eastern shrine to cinders."

The voice hung in the air like a poisoned dagger.

Another cloaked figure responded with a mirthless chuckle that echoed strangely off the basalt walls. "Shrine? That was no mere shrine. It was a fully operational node. Twelve trained acolytes. A bound anchor stone. And a Hand appointed directly by the Eye."

The chuckle dissolved into cold disdain. "All of it gone. All of it... because of him."

"The Death Magus," the first voice repeated, would be named dripping like a curse.

"The Kingdom’s blunt instrument. The King points, and he strikes. Yet even without knowing our work, he strikes true enough to damage us."

A third voice cut in sharper, older, like the cracking of ancient bones.

"He is not to be dismissed. That branch was led by an S-rank mage, its anchor nearly complete. If he could dismantle it before the stabilization ritual finished, our other strongholds would be vulnerable. We must monitor his movements."

From the far right came a low hiss, almost like a serpent in the shadows. "You suggest we strike him?"

"Not yet," the strategist answered, calm and cold, their voice smooth as obsidian. "He hunts without knowledge of our shape. We are not his prey - yet. Should we reveal ourselves by moving against him directly, we invite his attention. Let him chase the enemies his King names and grasp at straws regarding our existence. Let him exhaust himself in battles that serve us."

The first speaker scoffed dismissively. "A beast with fangs is dangerous whether it bites you or not."

"Then we remain where beasts cannot reach," the strategist said. "The shadows are our weapon."

The spire pulsed again, slower now bu,t with greater intensity. The air thickened, folding inward like a tightening coil.

The pressure in the mind grew to an almost physical weight pressing against the edges of thought. The faint prickling of skin spread like cold fire.

The sensation of being watched, not by eyes but by something vast, ancient, and unseen.

The five figures shifted imperceptibly, adjusting their stance in response.

Their god was listening.

This power they carried - limitless, burning, and unbound - was no product of study or mortal toil. It had been given. Gifted in the most absolute sense.

Each had endured the same initiation: pain like molten glass coursing through their veins, the shattering of themselves, the disintegration of flesh and spirit, followed by a rush of clarity as new magic surged through them. Magic that shattered their mortal limits and rebuilt them in its image - S-rank potency distilled into raw, jagged force.

Given freely with the only price being loyalty and loyalty they had given.

The strategist’s voice cut through the mounting tension. "The Kingdom is fracturing. The Royal family is in shambles, and the Court’s unity is an illusion. This is the moment to push further."

They paused, voice dropping, pulling the others closer even though the chamber was empty of any sound but their own.

"We have influence in merchant houses, but these routes are not enough. We must take the Academcoins

Even here, within the bowels of shadow and stone, the word struck heavy and sharp.

The Mage Academy was not merely a school. It was the furnace where the Kingdom’s future was forged. Its graduates filled the courts, the armies, the research halls. To control the Academy was to shape generations.

One voice which was softer and almost hesitant ventured,

"The outer faculty is vulnerable. Poorly paid. Overworked. A gift of coins or rare tomes would see them looking the other way."

"No," another countered instantly, voice low but firm. "Coin can be outbid. Influence can be bought back. We require permanence - roots that cannot be pulled."

The strategist inclined their hood slightly, a gesture almost imperceptible but laden with authority.

"Then we plant them," the strategist said simply. "Students, hand-picked, trained in secret before admission. Staff positions acquired through proxies. A network that grows within, silent and unseen. When our roots have taken the Academy’s heart, it will beat in our rhythm."

"And grows Death Magus?" a fourth asked, curiosity edging their tone more than concern.

"He will not trouble us there unless we give him reason," the strategist replied. "The Academy is beneath his suspicions unless something demands otherwise. And they have no reason to suspect."

A brief silence settled, thick and heavy, as the weight of their scheme sank in.

From the far side, a voice cracked, brittle as dry boughs through Black Veil grow restless. Their cells have been compromised thrice this cycle. The King’s new enforcers sweep the border towns with relentless fury."

The strategist’s hand clenched, fingers tightening inside the folds of their cloak. "Their failure-madman opportunity. The fractures in their ranks will be exploited. Their survivors will become our assets or their demise will be swift."

A murmur, almost a whisper, curled through the group like smoke. "What about it??

Heads bowed slightly.

They had noticed the surge in a bizarre energy only typical of souls.

"Its ambitions stretch beyond any of ours," the strategist said, voice low, almost reverent.

"The Soul King is a madman who’ll watch the Kingdom burn. He might even be a potential ally."

Another voice, young and sharp, pressed, "And what of the whispers in the capital? The unrest within the court? They say a faction conspires to unseat the King."

"Whispers are wind, easily scattered," the strategist replied with a cold smile.

"But winds can erode stone over time. We must plant seeds in the court itself, to hasten its collapse. Our influence must be subtle, threaded through the very fabric of power."

The chamber pulsed again, and for a heartbeat, the serpent carvings shimmered as if breathing, their eyes narrowing in collective hunger.

One of the cloaked figures stepped forward slightly, voice laced with dark amusement. "Patience, comrades. The Kingdom is like a ripe fruit. Bruised, swollen, ready to fall. But the fall must be slow, calculated. Tolanden, and the world will scream in alarm."

The strategist nodded. "We are not agents of chaos, but of inevitability."

Another voice, deeper and older, rumbled. "The acolytes in the western wastes send troubling reports. The magical currents there twist and falter, as if the land itself resists the Eye’s touch."

The strategist’s eyes, if they could be seen, would have burned with silent fire. "Then we bind it tighter.

The land will bend before our god. The rituals grow stronger. We are the serpents beneath the soil."

The group fell silent again, the weight of their shared purpose wrapping tight around them like a coil.

The spire’s pulse slowed but grew stronger, each flare of light casting the walls into sharper relief. The serpents in the carvings seemed to stir, shifting with fluid grace. Eyes glinted and blinked in the light like predators awakening from slumber.

The pressure in the air swelled until it was almost unbearable.

The strategist’s voice rang out, louder now, filled with cold conviction.

"We are the unseen coils. The hidden gaze. The Kingdom will fall not to sword or fire, but to the Eye’s vision."

They paused, voice softening to a whisper meant only for those present.

"This is the will of our god."

The others straightened, their shadows deepening until it was impossible to tell if faces lay beneath their hoods at all.

And then, as one, their voices merged, the sound filling the chamber and vibrating in the very stone beneath their feet:

"Ophidian Eye!"

The spire flared blindingly bright.

For an instant, the carvings on the walls seemed alive with serpents twisting and eyes blinking.

Then darkness swallowed the room whole.

When the light returned, the chamber was empty.

No trace remained of the five cloaked figures, save for the faint, lingering echo of their final word.